McClain Gilbert waited in the contact team’s operational office, not too far away from the bridge. By contrast, this compartment had only a couple of consoles, but a lot more display screens. Three long tables were seating most of his forty-strong team members, who were regarding the blank screens with a controlled patience. The absence of any current sensor data couldn’t damp the sense of excitement vibrating around the room. It was present in the short terse comments shot between friends, the way shift rotas had been forgotten so everyone could cram in, drink packets on the tables, lack of the usual horseplay. The contact team was finally coming into its own.
So far, they had been the most underused department on board, simply looking over everyone else’s shoulder as vast quantities of physics data flowed back into the starship. Now, that tolerance and waiting was being rewarded.
Oscar came in just as the Second Chance emerged from its wormhole. Mac waved him into the vacant chair next to his own, and together they watched the wormhole’s blue light fade off the screens allowing the cameras to focus on the chunk of rock they were rendezvoused with. Anna, who found it and therefore had the right, had named it the Watchtower. It was a long slice of rock, with a station of some kind at one end. Given its towerlike shape, and its position—one and a half AUs beyond the outer gas-giant orbit—she felt it analogous to some ancient imperial outpost, a long-forgotten garrison fort, watching across the desolate barbarian territories for anything that could threaten civilization.
“Looks like we were right about it being inactive,” Oscar said. “Thankfully.”
Long-range passive scans had shown no infrared emission. There was no neutrino activity, or electromagnetic broadcasts. As the rock had a fast rotation, once every twenty-six minutes, they had concluded it was now abandoned, most probably a victim of some ancient battle.
As he watched the images appear, backed up by the slow trickle of data, Mac was convinced they were right. The rock was fashioned like a sharp blade, over a kilometer and a half long, but never more than a couple of hundred meters wide. Every side was sheer, with razor edges: obviously a splinter that had snapped off cleanly from whatever asteroid had been nuked into oblivion.
“That must have been one brute of an explosion,” Mac said idly. “We’ve never seen them build anything on a small asteroid.”
The station was rooted in the surface at the wider end of the fragment. Cubes and pyramids and mushrooms of polytitanium composite made up the bulk of it, their once-strong hulls now brittle from centuries of vacuum exposure. Crumbling fissures exposed reinforcement ribs below, while the color had been mottled down to a grubby lead-gray by uncountable micrometeorite punctures and constant molecular ablation. Spiky fungal structures molded from toughened plastics and metaloceramics lurked between the larger sections. They, too, were fraying around the edges, leaving long delicate strands poking out from ragged cavities.
“At least you won’t have any trouble gaining access,” Oscar told him. “There are more holes than walls.”
“Yeah, on the upper sections. Those lower portions look more intact. Ah, here we go, the deep scan’s coming in.”
They leaned forward in unison, peering at the small hologram portal that was now showing a three-dimensional map of the station’s internal layout.
“That looks like a surrealist’s maze,” Oscar said. “It’s got to be some kind of industrial refinery, those are all pipes, aren’t they?”
“Or corridors, or warren tunnels. Remember the jarrofly nests we found on Tandil? We thought they were just beautiful coral outcrops until the swarm came out.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Oscar gave his friend a wide smile. “Only one way to be sure.”
“Right. Send us in to do the dirty work. Never fails.”
“Damn right. I’ll just lounge around in here, maybe have me one of those gourmet meals from the canteen, then access a hot TSI drama. But you be sure to enjoy yourself in those ball-squeezer suits of yours while you’re over there.”
“Once I set foot on that lump of rock, make first contact with the Dysons, it’ll be my name that our race remembers, not yours.”
“Tut tut: vanity, the most tragic sin of all. Hey, Mr. Legend, what are your first words going to be when you set that photogenic foot down?”
Mac struck a sincerely thoughtful pose. “I thought something like: Fuck me, now I remember why you shouldn’t eat curry before you put on a space suit. ”
“Cool. Historic, even. I like that.”
